Sometimes I Wish We Could Get Along
by McMuffinDragon
Summary: Or How One Word Ruined a Dinner. Spain/Romano, Germany/Veneciano, Prussia


Veniciano sets a little basket of rolls down between Prussia and me. He takes his seat with Germany on one side and Lovi on the other. I smile at him, ever the peacemaker trying to bridge the gap between his brother and his lover. I glance at Lovino and am secretly glad that Veneiciano and I don't have any problems getting along.

"Hey, Kraut bastard!" Lovino barks across the table at Prussia with his hand in the rolls, "We haven't said Grace yet, put those down." He takes his brother's hand and my own; Veniciano grabs Germany's hand. The Germans look at each other. Germany glances to Veneciano, who smiles at him, and offers a hand to his brother in good faith with a look of "Just do it; it won't kill you." Prussia rolls his eyes with a clear expression of "Stupid Catholics..." and take his brother's hand and my own.

Lovino gives the blessing, "Benedici noi Signore e questi tuoi doni che stiamo per ricevere dalla tua bontà, per Cristo nostro Signore," We chorus Amen with him. "Now you can eat, Potato Bastards." Prussia grabs for the potatoes sitting on his brother's other side. With an aggravated sigh, Germany hands the bowl to Prussia. Something kicks me under the table, and I turn to Lovino.

"Did you want some of this?" He asks, holding a big bowl of spaghetti out to me, from his tone this was probably the fifth time he'd asked. I'd offered to bring paella or something, but Lovino had threatened me not to and said there would be enough food.

"Oh, sure, Lovi," I smile and hand him my plate. He give me "Don't ever call me that" look, and I just keep smiling. Lovi can think I'm a stupid ditz all he wants; it won't stop me. I reach over into the bread basket and find it empty. All the little rolls line Prussia's plate as he scarfs down his food. I can see Germany glancing at him with a scowl as he nods along to whatever Veneciano is saying. I slowly creep my fingers over to the edge of his plate, careful to avoid the Prussian's gnashing teeth; my fingers wrap around a roll and start to retreat.

Prussia grabs my wrist, and I freeze. "What the hell are you doing?" is what I think he says, but it's hard to understand a man with a mouthful of food.

"I wanted a roll," I say innocently enough, tugging slightly against Prussia's hold on me, "You took them all." Prussia glares at me, swallows, and opens his mouth to say something else.

"Gilbert, let him have one," Germany cuts in. Prussia practically throws my hand back at me.

"Gracias," I mumbled with a subdued smile, rubbing my wrist. Lovino nudges a bowl of risotto toward me.

"De nada," Germany murmurs back at me. I can't help the little look of surprise that springs on me to hear Germany speak my language. My grins gets a little wider, and I laugh a little. Germany chuckles softly, but at what I'm not completely sure. Veneciano asks Germany what's so funny. Lovino barks that if Germany is laughing at me, then he'd better watch out. Prussia growls for Lovino to leave his brother alone. Lovino shouts "Make me!" Germany intervenes, wisely saying that he was laughing at something else. Veneciano, clueless as always, asks if anyone wants more wine. Lovi and I both hold up our glasses.

On the whole, the first course goes well. Veneciano brings out enough lasagna to feed all of Europe and a bowl of salad that he almost drops on the way to the table. After sardonically asking if we need to say grace again, Prussia practically breathes in his food; Lovino makes comments on whether he can actually taste it or not and asks Germany if he knows the Heimlich Maneuver. Germany gives him a dark look, but doesn't say anything. He tells his brother to slow down. I wipe bits of half chewed pasta off my arm as Prussia responds with something like "I'll do whatever the hell I want, West, shut up." Lovino fusses over Veneciano getting pasta sauce on his cheek.

I'm not sure whether I'm glad that I don't have a brother or not.

"So, Spain," Prussia turns to me while Veneciano is getting dessert, "I was thinking you and me and France should get together sometime, like old times, y'know?"

I open my mouth to say that sounded like a good idea, but Lovino snapped, "No, no fucking way, Antonio, you're not hanging out with that fucking wino," He drains his glass and reaches for the wine bottle. I only half listen to the rest of what he says to me, but I can hear Germany giving his brother a similar speech. I look over to Lovi's angry red face and think of how similar he and Germany are sometimes and can't understand how they don't get along.

Veneciano interrupts the France bashing fest with tiramisu and marzipan. Once again, I had offered to bring churros or something, but Lovi told me not to bother.

No one fights while we eat this time. It's almost like the dessert's sweetness is able to counteract the harsh bitterness that seems to hang over everyone. At least, I like to think that's what's happening.

Veneciano clears away the plates and asked if any of us wanted coffee. He hustles back into the kitchen. Lovino reaches over and softly brushed a little cocoa dust from the side of my lips. I smile at him, and he grumbles something about how much of a slob I am. Prussia gets up, groaning; we all secretly say "I told you so" as he lumbers down the hall to crash on the couch.

"So, Spain," Germany says, just trying to make conversation, "I hear you're going to stop bull fighting."

"Oh, well," I play nervously with the rim of my wineglass, "It's actually just Catalonia who's thinking of stopping." I drain my glass and ask Lovino for some more. "But, you know, once one of them decides to stop, it's just a matter of time," I sigh and try to keep smiling, "before another long standing facet of a culture dies." I chuckle nervously; I'm really on the fence about the issue. I like the thrill of fighting bulls, sure, but I can't go against the trend my people are starting against the the sport. Most of them think it's cruel, so I do, too. I guess my smile must have fallen because Lovino places a comforting hand on mine and rubs my calloused fingers.

"Well, I must say, I agree with them," Germany replies. I feel my brow crease. "That kind of treatment for animals might have been acceptable in the past, but this is a new time." I take a gulp of wine to try to get the lump in my throat to go away. "It's the same reason we don't have gladiators anymore," I can feel Lovi tense up next to me, "It's _barbaric_." I can't help a little gasp at the B word.

It all happens so fast; Lovino stands up in a flash, throws his wine in Germany's face, and starts yelling about how he's one to talk about being a barbarian. I get up and try to calm him down. Germany frowns and wipes his face on his napkin before trying to blot some of the wine out of his suit. At some point Veneciano rushes back in. I can hear a clatter and shattering as he drops the tray with the coffee on it. Veneciano rushes to fuss over Germany which only makes Lovino madder. He struggles against me, trying to vault over the table to get to Germany.

Prussia runs back in at the shouts. I yell for him to help me as I'm barely holding on to Lovi. My friend rushes to the table and grabs the wine bottle. I feel my stomach falls into my knees as I realize what he's about to do. The bottle comes crashing down on Lovino's head; it cracks and goes everywhere.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Lovino shouts at Prussia who stands there heroically with a jagged bottleneck in his hand. Lovi and I are both covered in glass and wine. "Get the fuck out!"

"But, fratello--" Veneciano tries to reason with him. I stand there, fishing shards out of my shirt.

"No, you too, all of you, out of my house!" Germany throws his napkin down and strides out of the room without another word. Veneciano trots after him, crying, and Prussia's the last to go. He returns briefly to put the broken bottleneck back on the table, but after he leaves the house is quiet. Lovino stands, bracing himself against a chair with wine dripping from his hair. I start to make for the door. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" He snaps. I half turn back to him.

"You told everyone to get out," I said sheepishly.

"I didn't mean you, dumbass." He comes over to me, and I half think he's going to hit me. Instead, he wraps his arms around my stomach and rests his head on my shoulder with a sigh. I know what he's thinking.

"Ti amo," I whisper to him, "You did your best."

"Anche io ti amo," He mumbles back, then adds with a little edge, "You're wet."

"You are too," I laugh and give him a little kiss.


End file.
